Encore
by Papergirl
Summary: The sequel to The Musician. It takes place after Noel


Title: Encore (aka The Musician 2/2)

Title: Encore (aka The Musician 2/2)

Author: Amber (ambino1111@prodigy.net)

Spoilers: Noel, and my fanfic The Musician

Archive: Anywhere, just let me know

Rating: G

Feedback: is my muse

Disclaimer: Not mine, or else my "fanfic" would be "episodes"

Summary: Donna discovers Josh's secret after the events of Noel.

Author's Notes: I wrote the majority of this one right after the first, but I couldn't finish it until a few minutes ago. This is unbeta'd so I hope you like it.

"Donna, really, I'll be fine. You can go on home and get some sleep."

"Joshua, for the last time, you are coming home with me. I don't know if you noticed or not, but it's snowing, there's a ten below windchill, and you have a broken window."

I grin sheepishly as I swing open my apartment door and follow Donna inside. There is no chance of winning this argument, but I like the challenge of trying.

"But what will your roommate think?"

"I already told you that Susie is too preoccupied with moving in with her boyfriend - she hardly notices if I'm there anymore."

"Susie's moving out?" I ask, incredulous.

Donna glares at me.

"I have been complaining about her leaving for over a week. Do you not listen to a word I say?"

"I think it's obvious that I don't," I retort, heading to my bedroom with Donna on my heels. "I tend to tune you out when you complain."

I can feel her glare on my back, but I don't turn around for fear of laughing and being slapped.

"Do you need my help?" She asks resignedly. I recall with a brief pang of guilt that it is, after all, Christmas. Maybe I should get her skis.

"I always need your help, Donnatella," I inform her, reinforcing my words with a smile. I am rewarded with an equally bright smile from Donna, and I hand her a little black toiletries bag. "Can you get my stuff from the bathroom?"

She laughs, handing back the bag. "I'd rather pack your suitcase. Whenever you do it, your suits wrinkle and you look like a slob."

I look at her with mock indignity. "I may occasionally be rumpled, but I never look like a slob."

I can hear Donna's laughter echo as I backtrack into the bathroom.

"No respect," I mumble in my best Rodney Dangerfield as I toss soap, shaving cream, razor, aftershave, toothpaste, toothbrush, and floss into my bag. I quietly open the medicine chest and retrieve the almost-empty bottles of pills that reside there. Donna already knows about all my medications - hell, she'd been the one to get the prescriptions filled - but after tonight I don't feel up to revealing more weaknesses.

I head back to my room. Donna has been quiet, suspiciously quiet. Maybe she fell asleep. Maybe she left. Oh no, I drove her away!

Nah, she's still here. She's sitting on the floor.

"Hey, what's up?" I ask, tossing the black bag on my bed.

She looks up, embarrassed. "I was just pulling your suitcase out from under the bed, but I... well, I pulled this out instead. I thought maybe it was a new suitcase, but..."

I feel my chest constrict before I even follow her gaze. My trumpet case lay open in front of her, the metal shining in the lamplight.

"Oh," I say, or I think I say, and sink down next to her. I'm suddenly aware that my breathing is quick and shallow. I think the room is spinning.

"Josh, are you okay?" Donna asks. In spite of my clouding vision I can clearly see the worry on her face. I've already worried her enough for a lifetime, so I force myself to catch my breath.

"Me? I'm fine," I croak, grimacing at how high my voice sounds.

She doesn't believe it for a second, but she doesn't want to push Psychotic Josh.

"I'm sorry. I'll - I'll just put this away." She says quickly, reaching out to shut the case. I grab her hands, perhaps too harshly, and bring them to rest on the floor.

"N-no, don't - don't put it away," The words tumble out before I'm aware my mouth has opened. She's looking at me now, curiosity and concern fighting for top billing on her face.

Curiosity wins. "I never knew you played the trumpet," She says. I swear I detect a touch of awe in her voice.

"I haven't it a while," I have a lump the size of Texas in my throat. I don't want to cry, not in front of Donna, not before I get this off my chest.

"Why didn't you tell me?" She asks gently. Concern is fighting back, hurt on its heels.

"I - I..." I trail off, trying to formulate an articulate response. "I don't know." At least it's the truth. "I- I wanted to tell you. I almost did, back when the President was in Portland and you and Ainsley were talking about musical instruments. I just... I couldn't then."

"But you can now?" Her question is simple enough, but for me it's a loaded one. Am I honestly ready to share this? After what I've been through tonight, after what she's been through? Will it burden her even more? Will sharing this make it less special, make me lose a vital connection to my sister? To my father? To myself? If I decided to tell her, would I even be able to find the words?

"I can."

For a moment we just sit there staring at the trumpet as the brevity of my words sinks in. The silence grows thick and suffocating. I've always disliked silence.

"Donna," I take a deep breath. "I'm a musician."

The words tumble out and I feel like a weight has been lifted, as if this foolish secret had been holding me down for far too many years.

Donna doesn't laugh. She could, though. By all rights she should. I should, too. I mean, she's sitting on the floor of her boss's bedroom, her boss, who was diagnosed with PTSD, who just revealed he played the trumpet as if it was something to be ashamed of, and she isn't laughing. In fact, the way she's looking at me right now - laughter is the farthest thing from her mind. There's something else in that look, something more than mere concern, or friendship, or devotion, and I'm afraid to examine it too deeply. I am still her boss, even though it's Christmas, even though she's giving me that look, even though we're mere inches from my bed.

"Do you want to talk about it?" She asks softly. So softly, in fact, that I'm not even sure she said it.

"I NEED to talk about it," I say firmly. I do. I never talk about Joanie to anyone, except Sam once on her birthday when I was drunk, and I need to. I don't need many things in my life, but right now I need two: I need to talk, and I need someone to listen. I need Donna to listen. Okay, that's three things, but it's safe to assume that Donna is going to be the one to listen. Why else would she be sitting next to me, waiting for me to start and not giving any outward indication that the room temperature has dropped so low that we can practically see our breath solidify.

I don't know how long we sat there, me spilling my guts and she just listening, understanding, but by the time I was done my throat was dry and my hands, feet, and face were essentially frostbitten.

I finish my tale, feeling more relieved than I have in a long time, and Donna and I just sit for a moment. I start to get antsy, and before the silence can settle in again I jump to my feet and throw open my closet door. Donna, freakishly anticipating my moves, lifts the suitcase onto my bed and unfastens the clasps. I toss some suits in; she takes them out and lays them in nicely. I roll up some socks, underwear, and undershirts into a gigantic ball as we chatter about when the window repairman will be here - sometime during the 29th. Pretending to be a professional baseball pitcher, I hurl the ball on top of my suitcase. Most of the contents of the clothesball break apart and fall to the ground. Donna grumbles good-naturedly and helps me pick them up. Somehow I don't find Donna packing my underwear odd.

We're good at teamwork, Donna and I. Better, I dare say, than Sam and I, but I would never admit that to his face. It's just, Donna and I have this sort of metaphysical connection that surpasses all of my other relationships. Friendships. I mean friendships, of course. We have a bond. Yin and yang. Up and down. Gin and Tonic. Lennon and McCartney. Abbott and Costello. Romeo and Juliet. We belong together.

"Josh! Are you coming, or do you want to turn into a popsicle?"

I want to say, 'Only if you'll lick me,' but I know I can't. It's not appropriate. Not appropriate at all.

Donna's already in the hallway, but I linger in my bedroom. The trumpet case hasn't moved. It's laying open, calling to me, begging for me to move on and bring it back to life.

"Joshua, if I have to come back there, so help me God -"

"I'm coming," I call, squatting down to close up the case. I study it for a moment, then grab the handle in my good hand and join my assistant by my front door.

She tries to hide her surprise at seeing me with it, but she fails and she knows it. Instead, she smiles at me and suddenly I can feel my hands and toes.

"Are you ready?" She asks, opening the door again with her free hand. I nod and step into the hallway. She locks the door behind me and I smile at her. For such a mentally trying day, I sure am smiling a lot.

"Thanks, Donna. I am ready,"

I follow her to her car and we banter about inane things on the way. I offer to scrape the snow off, but she locks me inside, foolishly forgetting you can't lock someone in a car. I abide by her wishes, however, watching her work from inside the warming vehicle and gently rubbing my injured hand. I think the painkillers are wearing off.

When Donna gets into the driver's seat, her cheeks are rosy from the wind. She rubs her hands together and turns to face me. 

"Put your seat belt on, Josh."

I nod and fumble with it before Donna leans over to help. When she shifts to drive I sigh a little. This woman is my savior.

"Hey, Donna?" I ask after we turn onto the deserted road. I cringe at the little boy quality of my voice.

"Hmm?"

"When we get to your place..." I pause, taking a breath. The trumpet case is between my feet. I haven't played it in oh so long.

"Yes?"

"When we get to your place," I pause again, but only momentarily. "I would like to play for you."

Donna's smile warms me to the very soul. She turns to look at me and I can see the delight in her twinkling eyes.

"Do you know any Christmas songs?" She asks with a grin.

"Not really, but I can figure them out."

She nods and suddenly I'm struck with an idea. "Donna, do you still have your flute?"

"Yes," She says slowly. "I haven't played it, though, since... high school, I think."

"That's okay. I'm a bit rusty, too."

We're silent the rest of the way to Donna's, but for once it's a silence I don't mind. I'm occupied with ridding myself of the corny phrase "We make beautiful music together." Although I find no better way of putting it.

I reflect on the events of the past day and marvel at how far I've come. Earlier today I was headed for a nervous breakdown, tonight I'm able to banter with Donna. Life is full of whiplash turns.

It seems like forever since I first stumbled upon my sister's horn. In a way, it has been. But tonight, tonight is the start of something new. A prelude to a better, happier, saner life for Joshua Lyman. I'm going to face my musical demons, and I'm going to win. Not only am I going to win, but Donna and I are, together, side by side.

We regretfully exit the warmth of the car, and I wait for Donna to pop the trunk. As we start walking towards her building an ambulance flies past, sirens blaring. I stop, and Donna knows to stop, too. Staring after it, feeling her staring at me, I start to hear Ave Maria in my head. I ponder briefly how long it will be before music and sirens are no longer interchangeable.

When it's out of sight we continue to her apartment, neither of us willing to comment on what just happened.

Like Stanley said, we get better. It just takes time, and therapy, and most of all friends. We have to face life one day at a time. As corny and hackneyed as it sounds, it's the truth.

Later on Donna brings out her flute, and some old sheet music. I hold the trumpet for the longest time before fishing out the mouthpiece to blow gently into it. Once it's warm I place it in the trumpet and look at Donna. Her flute is in her lap, and she's smiling the most encouraging smile I've seen since Joanie's at Carnegie Hall.

I play a quick scale, and although it's out of tune she cheers and claps. Then, after a few seconds of figuring it out, Donna and I perform a stunningly off key duet of 'Silent Night', and I can't stop beaming.

It's music to my ears.


End file.
